Flash Stories

The Magnetic South Pole

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:59 p.m.

Dr. William Harper sat in the dimly lit cabin, his breath fogging in the cold air that seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls. He gazed out the small, frosted window at the vast, white nothingness beyond. The Antarctic night was long, a canvas of endless ice stretching out like a frozen sea. The world felt smaller here—compressed, as though the weight of the icy landscape could crush the very spirit from a man.

He was supposed to be a part of history. The first to reach the Magnetic South Pole. A dream he’d nurtured for years. But now, standing on the precipice of that dream, William felt the weight of reality pressing against him. Shackleton had already failed. Others before him had turned back, too—men of greater renown, more experience. Yet here he was, alone with a few fellow scientists, still determined to forge forward.

He pulled his …

The Last Days of El Salvador's Civil War

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:57 p.m.

The sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows across the fields that stretched like a forgotten memory. José sat on the edge of the trench, the dirt under his fingers cooling as the evening breeze swept through. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, though the battles had stopped for the day. In the distance, the silhouette of a soldier—a comrade, perhaps—was barely visible, a reminder that the war was far from over.

1992, the final year of El Salvador’s civil war. A war that had shaped him, broken him, and, in some ways, defined him. It had been more than a decade of fighting, of bloodshed, of choices that had no easy answers. He had once believed in the cause—the revolution, the idea of justice for the oppressed. But now, in the quiet moments before the ceasefire, doubt clung to him like the dust in …

Prohibition’s Dawn

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:56 p.m.

It was the sound of the doorbell that made Benny pause. The bell chimed the same way it always did, a soft jingle that brought a sense of warmth to the dimly lit bar. But tonight, that chime felt like an omen—sharp and foreboding.

Benny wiped his hands on the rag, eyes flicking to the doorway as a man in a heavy coat stepped inside. The man’s face was masked with the cold, but his eyes—those eyes—held a glimmer of something Benny didn’t want to see. Trouble.

“You still open, Benny?” the man asked, his voice gruff, clipped.

“Always open,” Benny replied, his own voice sounding strained in the otherwise quiet room. The old mahogany bar gleamed under the flickering candlelight, as though it too were unsure of the changes to come.

It was January 1919, the start of something he could hardly comprehend, something that would unravel everything he …

The Shah's Departure

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:53 p.m.

The palace was quiet, unnervingly so. It was the kind of quiet that settled deep into your bones, the kind that came before a storm. For years, the royal compound had echoed with the sound of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of courtiers whispering in the hallways, and the rustling of silk gowns and crisp uniforms. Now, it felt as though the air itself had grown heavy, thick with anticipation and fear.

Nazanin stood in the grand hallway, staring out at the vast courtyard where the last rays of the sun flickered over the marble fountains. She had been a part of this palace for as long as she could remember, her mother a maid to the Queen and her father a trusted aide to the Shah. Now, it felt as though the weight of history was pressing down on her, too heavy to bear.

The revolution had been building …

A Mother’s Miracle

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:38 p.m.

Elena sat in the quiet of her living room, staring out the window at the fading light of dusk. The world outside was bustling, unaware of the miracle unfolding within her home. She could hear the distant sounds of children playing, the laughter of a family across the street, and the gentle hum of the city, but all of it seemed so far away, so distant from her world.

At sixty-six, Elena had never imagined she would become a mother. It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted children. Life had simply taken a different path. She had once been married, young and in love, but that dream had faded with time. She had built a career, traveled the world, and embraced the joys of solitude, always with the quiet ache of what could have been. But now, sitting in her favorite armchair, the soft hum of life around her was interrupted …

The First Step

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:29 p.m.

It was quiet in the barracks, the hum of the ceiling fan barely cutting through the thick Gulf air. Amir sat on his bunk, fingers tracing the edge of his rifle. The weight of it in his hands felt unnatural, as if the metal and wood were meant for someone else. Someone more prepared, someone older. But here he was, just nineteen, still wearing the smell of his mother’s cooking in his uniform, still haunted by the taste of the salt in the Persian Gulf breeze as he had arrived. Now, all he could taste was the tension.

The year was 1991, and war was no longer a distant echo. It was real. It was waiting, just over the horizon. The Persian Gulf War. He had heard the name in passing, in the streets of Tehran, in the newsrooms of his hometown. But now it was his name being called, …

The Last Scoop

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:26 p.m.

Ellie Harris leaned against the cold glass of her office window, staring at the city below, a sea of moving lights and fleeting faces. The newsroom behind her buzzed with the usual chaos, the hum of phones, the tapping of keyboards, and the quiet tension of deadlines looming. But today, something felt different. Something was breaking.

Her editor’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Ellie, we need that piece by five. It’s a big one. Our readers are eating it up.”

Ellie swallowed hard, her fingers resting on the keyboard without moving. The story was ready, but there was a problem—she knew the facts didn’t quite add up. She’d pieced together a report about a major tech company’s recent scandal, but her sources were shaky, their credibility questionable. The company had deep pockets, and their PR team was already spinning their narrative in the press. Ellie had a choice: to publish …

The Trader's Gambit

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:24 p.m.

The charts glowed red on Alan’s multiple monitors, an unbroken sea of collapsing currencies. Headlines screamed chaos: “Emerging Market Meltdown,” “Hyperinflation Devours South America,” “African Nations Abandon Fiat.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, the taste of stale coffee bitter on his tongue. He’d seen crashes before, but this was different. It wasn’t just a country or two—it was a global unraveling. Nations pegged to the dollar were unpegging, digital reserves were being frozen, and central banks were scrambling to stay afloat.

His trading terminal pinged: another alert. The Turkish lira had just dropped 50% against the dollar overnight. He tapped the keyboard, glancing at the data stream.

“Turkey’s gone,” he muttered, shaking his head.

The door to his apartment creaked open, and his wife, Lena, peeked in. “You’ve been at this all night. Any wins?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Wins? Not exactly. Profits, sure—but at what cost? He’d shorted …

The Duchess in Room 12

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:22 p.m.

The hospital buzzed with an energy that hadn’t been felt in years. Fresh flowers lined the front desk, the floors gleamed from an extra polish, and the faint smell of disinfectant mingled with the scent of anticipation.

Kate Middleton’s visit was all anyone could talk about. Staff whispered in the corridors, patients smoothed their hair in their beds, and even the normally stoic Dr. Rees had put on a tie.

In Room 12, Maria adjusted her oxygen tube nervously. The elderly woman had been battling a stubborn case of pneumonia, and while the nurses promised her she didn’t have to say anything, the thought of meeting a duchess made her palms sweat.

Outside, Kate moved through the ward with her signature grace, but up close, she was different. She crouched to speak to a little boy in a wheelchair, her face lit with genuine warmth as he showed her his …

The Final Stretch

hamed Jan. 16, 2025, 5:20 p.m.

The locker room was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of fluorescent lights. Emma sat on the bench, staring at her running shoes, their neon laces glowing faintly under the harsh light. The weight on her chest felt heavier than her legs after a grueling sprint.

Outside, the stadium roared—thousands of voices chanting her name. Emma. Emma. Emma.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the noise. Tomorrow’s headline was already written: “Emma Carter: America’s Golden Girl.” The pressure pressed down like a vice. Everyone expected her to win, to shatter records, to be perfect.

“Five minutes,” a voice called from the doorway.

Emma nodded without looking up. Her coach had stopped giving pep talks—she didn’t need them. Or so everyone thought.

Her phone buzzed on the bench. A text from her mom: “You’ve got this, sweetheart. Make us proud.”

She wanted to scream. To throw the phone against …